Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/88



When Death shall tread me down upon the plain,

And pluck my feathers, and my life-blood drain,

Then mold me to a cup, and fill with wine;

Haply its scent will make me breathe again.

So far as this world's dealings I have traced,

I find its favors shamefully misplaced;

Allah be praised! I see myself debarred

From all its boons, and wrongfully disgraced.

'Tis dawn! my heart with wine I will recruit,

And dash to bits the glass of good repute;

My long-extending hopes I will renounce,

And grasp long tresses, and the charming lute.

Though I had sinned the sins of all mankind,

I know Thou would'st to mercy be inclined;

Thou sayest, "I will help in time of need."

One needier than I where wilt Thou find?

Am I a wine-bibber? What if I am?

Gueber or infidel? Suppose I am?

Each sect miscalls me, but I heed them not,

I am my own, and, what I am, I am.

All my life long from drink I have not ceased.

And drink I will to-night on Sadr's feast:

And throw my arms about the wine-jar's neck,

And kiss its lip, and clasp it to my breast!